


Dirty Paws

by caleco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Smut, F/M, Pets, Vetrinarian AU, hitman - Freeform, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caleco/pseuds/caleco
Summary: Sandor Clegane is living under the Lannister’s leash, playing his role as the Hound by being their personal bodyguard and hitman. He’s buying his time until he can escape the mafia business for good, but then a runt of a kitten decides he must be its true mother and he meets a gorgeous vetrinatian with a nasty past of her own. It all goes to hell from there.
Relationships: Bronn/Margaery Tyrell, Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Ygritte, Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Tormund Giantsbane/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 9
Kudos: 79





	Dirty Paws

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a cartoon of a muscled, tattooed guy with his pet kitten and it all spiraled out of control into this mess. Comments appreciated!!

Sandor woke up immediately when he heard the noise outside his window.

His heart was already pounding, his hand already gripped around the gun on his bedside table- if it was one of the fuckin’ Greyjoys again, he’d skin them alive. Especially the wiry blond boy. He pissed the everloving fuck out of Sandor.

The noise was coming from his window, just a tiny little tap- no, tiny little scratch. It only fueled the anger bubbling up in Sandor’s throat. He didn’t play little games, never had. 

The noise continued a few more repetitions, and finally his patience was gone- fuck it, if it was a trap he’d live. He always did.

He threw back his blackout curtains, shoving the thick black fabric out of the way in favor of his pistol, shoved right into the window.

He blinked a few times into the darkness, the outside only illuminated by a faraway, blinking street lamp. There wasn’t anything there- no Greyjoys, no games, nothing. Sandor had scoped out every window in the apartment before he leased, making sure there were no blindspots or weak entryways- from this point he could see the entire lot in front of him. There was nothing there.

But the scratching came again, and then he noticed the fluff at the bottom of the window.

“The fuck…” Sandor muttered, crouching down to eye-level with the round, black ball. If he squinted at just the right time, right as the shitty street lamp flickered, he could make out the outline of the thing.

“You’re a pitiful little cunt, huh?” He mused, shaking his head. A fuckin’ cat, sitting on his windowsill, looking like it could be picked up by the next strong gust of wind. Of all places to bother, it had to pick his. He could already hear Meryn Trant cackling at him.

Then it scratched again, and Sandor was taken out of his Trant murder fantasy. 

“Fuck off.” He scowled, tapping his gun a little hard against the window in front of the kitten. It jumped a little, blinking up at him with creepy yellow eyes. They were almost the size of its damn body, he mused- it was a runt. It’d be dead by morning.

Sandor shut the curtains again, running a hand over his sleep-deprived face. It wasn’t like he ever slept good, with his profession, but a runt outside wouldn’t help matters. 

He put his gun back on his nightstand, laying back down on his bed. He closed his eyes, resuming partially his murder-fantasy, but this time with the Greyjoy boy- and then another particularly rough scratch.

Sandor threw an empty whiskey bottle at the window in a fit of frustration- it shattered against the material, sending shards all over his carpet. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

There was a pause where he thought he may have scared the shit out of the cat, enough that it’d scamper off to die in the cold. 

And then another scratch.

This time, he hit the window with his fist, creating a few spiderweb cracks around the impact. The cat, gods be damned, barely even looked phased. It just blinked up at him with those lazy yellow eyes, quietly awaiting another response.

Sandor never liked cats. He never liked any animals, to be fair- they were a luxury he could never afford, and likely never would be able to. It wasn’t just the money. He didn’t have time for an animal to be lapping at his heels, especially when those heels are caked with a new person’s blood every night. It wasn’t a very inviting environment for a pet.

And, like in this case, he didn’t know what the fuck to do with them.

He reached a fist back to punch the window again, knowing it would probably go straight through the window at this point- but he stopped, seeing those eyes blink slowly at him.

Sandor was a piece of shit, he knew that. He wasn’t about to lie to himself. Even if you took his profession out of the mix, he was still a godawful human being. 

But there was at least one person on this godforsaken earth that he knew he was better than.

And that person had frequently ripped apart little kittens, mutilated puppies. And Sandor- as much as he fucking despised thinking about his own shit-colored morality- was not that person.

Instead, he pried open his window, ignoring the sigh it made, close to crumpling in on its many fissures. He’d fix it another time.

As soon as a tiny opening was made, the cat squeezed itself it, first a fluffy black head and then a torso, its skinny legs falling in back. It was a pitiful little thing, all skin and bones. And it was acting like it owned the fucking place.

“One fucking night.” Sandor muttered, already pissed off at seeing the runt scamper around his bedroom floor, dodging the shards of whiskey bottle that now decorated it. 

He shut the curtains, determined to pretend like he hadn’t just done that. He was going to go back to bed, and hopefully when he woke up, the cat will have been an annoying nightmare.

As soon as he settled back into bed, closing his eyes, he felt something on him.

Sandor immediately stiffened, his first reaction to throw the thing off. He didn’t like anything or anyone touching him, and those tiny little paws were no exception. 

But the cat was dumb as a brick, just a tiny little chirping thing, and it crawled up his chest and settled into the crook of his neck. If he wasn’t so fucking annoyed at this point, it might have been funny. The stupid creature didn’t know how easy he could kill it, probably without any effort at all on his part. He killed much more ornery, difficult things on the daily.

And then the fucker started purring.

\-------------------

Sandor woke up the next morning to his alarm buzzing beside him, and something burrowed firmly into his neck.

He had the bundle in his hand in a second, squeezing the little form- until it squeaked in defiance and he remembered the little shit from the night before.

He let out an annoyed grunt, setting down the runt beside him. Sadly, it had not all been a dream, and now he had a fucking cat until he could get rid of it.

Sandor was throwing on his clothes, all black, inconspicuous pieces, even though his sheer size and ugly face never failed to let him stand out. He didn’t need any more reason to add to that, though.

The runt was perched on his bed, blinking up at him again.

“What the fuck do I do with it.” He mused to himself, gritting his teeth at the situation. He should’ve just been his normal self and thrown the cat outside, or just killed the little runt at first sight. It wasn’t meant to live naturally, by the looks of it. It was pathetic.

And now it was sitting on his bed, staring up at him like he was its fucking mother. 

He ended up cutting up a few bites of steak and throwing it in a bowl for it. It sniffed at it for a minute, pawing over to the bowl of water he’d left instead. Fuck it, Sandor decided. It would eat, or it would die. And frankly, Sandor prefered the latter at this point.

Sandor shut the door in its face when he left, ignoring the dumb look it gave him.

He had to get rid of it.

\-------------

It was not the best day at work.

It’s not like Sandor has some nice, kushy job in the wealthy district, or even some middle-wage career where he can sit at a desk all day and get health insurance and gossip with Martha about her cheating husband. His job is at best bearable, at worst suicidal. 

But people like him were never in the business because they wanted to be.

The bitch herself had told him about a lead downtown pointing towards someone that owed them money. And by the looks of it, a lot of it. If there was one thing Cersei Lannister loved, it was money. Perhaps her kids, in a twisted, disgusting way, and maybe her cunt of a brother in a decidedly non-brotherly manner, but mainly money.

Sandor wasn’t the biggest fan of torture. It was never his style, and he didn’t like the mess. He could admit that deep down, he enjoyed killing. But torture made a little part of him squirm uncomfortably. Not out of disgust- he was very desensitized to any gore after the mafia- but out of a tiny bit of morals still hanging onto him for dear life. 

The man had screamed and screamed and eventually passed out, bathed in his own vomit. And for some crazy, goddamned reason, Sandor wondered what that stupid kitten would think. If it would just come padding through the blood and gunk and just stare at him like he was its whole fucking world, even after some of the shit he did.

But he got paid, and the Lannisters kept him safe, in a way, from the many angry, bloodthirsty people he had following him. There were more than a few people wanting his head nowadays, for revenge or otherwise.

He grabbed some cheap takeout on the way home, throwing open the door and hearing a tiny yelp.

“Dumb fuck.” Sandor commented, seeing as the black runt had been sitting right outside the door, waiting for him. Who the fuck would ever want to wait for him.

It hadn’t touched the steak he left out, he noticed. He forced himself to look away from it- wasn’t his problem. The runt could eat, or it could die. He wasn’t going to keep it forever.

Sandor tried to do his normal evening routine of food, drinking himself into a stupor, and then falling asleep to a drunken fantasy of someday being not here. But the runt made itself a pest, always curling up into him, wanting some love shit from him. It was hilarious to him- this runt thinking he was capable of that.

At least it was quiet, he guessed. If that runt was chirping now, he’d throw it out now without a second thought, he told himself. This was just until it got a little warmer out, then he’d throw it out for good.

And again, it curled up into his neck, purring onto his throat.

\---------------

Another day passed, a little easier. He killed one man, but it was quick and relatively painless, and the cunt had also came with a hefty criminal background. It was a lot easier to sit with that.

And still the runt stayed around, not touching the steak he’d left out for him. 

What the fuck did they even eat? Or was it dying already? Sandor didn’t know what to do with it, and it was making him alarmingly frustrated, when he’d been telling himself over and over that he didn’t care. But those fucking yellow eyes, acting like he was something pure and loving, was throwing him off. 

Sandor finally gave up. He tried his best to shut his mind off as he called the number, ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest that was calling him a sappy bastard, calling him weak and pathetic. Maybe he could get the runt fixed and then someone could take it, and he could live better and maybe feel a bit more okay when he was ripping people’s fingernails off.

It was a stretch, but he felt like his whole fucking life was a stretch at this point, so he’d take it.

\------------

“And what is this one’s name?” 

The giant redhead was far too close for comfort, sticking his fingers into Sandor’s space, his breath hot on his face. Sandor wanted to punch him, close his fingers around his burly neck, but he reminded himself that he was not in that part of town, and he was not on the job.

He didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than necessary, but he realized he wasn’t doing the best of jobs- with his ugly, monstrous face, and his giant size, he couldn’t blend in on this side of town. The nice side.

The runt was curled up in his fists, pressed firmly against the front of his leather jacket. It hadn’t made a peep as he carried it across town, had barely done any more than look around curiously. 

And now there was this oaf of a man, a tall ginger with a wild beard and slightly disturbing look in his eyes.

And, even worse, Sandor didn’t have a name for the runt, either. He forgot that you had to name the little shits.

“Tormund, I think he could use some space.” A light voice chimed in from behind the oaf.

Tormund grinned, stepping out of his space for the first time in minutes. Sandor breathed a sigh of relief that was soon stopped in his throat.

The voice belonged to the most beautiful creature he’d seen, and Sandor immediately wanted to run far, far away. He took in her long, fiery hair that grazed the small of her back, the curvy, yet slim figure showcased even in plain green scrubs, and the tall cheekbones flanking blue, blue eyes with dark lashes. 

Sandor had made a huge mistake. He should’ve thrown the cat out the moment he’d seen it, killed it, done something to keep him from having to interact with this woman.

He waited for her to take in his scars, look at his ugly self- but instead, when she did notice him, her eyes took in his burns without flinching. Even more, they trailed a little down his muscled chest, his big arms, and then flitted back up with a light blush on her cheeks.

“Hi, I’m Sansa Stone.” The woman said, a bit quick, but Sandor barely noticed with how her red lips were moving. 

Sandor just nodded, making sure his hair situated itself over the badly burned section of his face. His body was screaming at him to get out of this situation, get away from the gorgeous woman that would likely just remind him how disgusting of a human being he was. 

“If you want to come with me to the back, we can check out Mr.-” She paused for a second as he stood, taking in his full height. She wasn’t a short woman in the least, he’d give her that, but he still had almost a foot on her, probably. Sansa blinked again, that reddish blush coating her cheeks and making her even more sexy to him.

And now he got to trail behind her, watching the curve of her waist leading to a tight bottom, moving right in front of him. He adjusted the front of his jeans when she wasn’t looking.

And she was talking, chirping again, and he’d missed half of it.

“-a name? I wasn’t sure if he did or not, since sometimes Tormund forgets the paperwork, but I also wouldn’t blame you because they’re sometimes hard to name. Sometimes you have to see their personality first and then-”

“Doesn’t have one.” Sandor grumbled, speaking up for the first time and hating the roughness in his voice. He didn’t talk much, and usually when he did, it wasn’t pretty. 

“Oh.” Sansa said, and he instantly felt like a dick.

“Couldn’t think of one.” Sandor said quickly, now feeling like some awkward teenager, trying to scramble for words to make her happy. Where the fuck did that come from?

“Oh, I understand. It took me forever to name my Lady. And I ended up going with a pretty classic name in the end.” Sansa said, opening up a door on the right for him to lumber through. She talked a lot, Sansa, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted her chirping to stop or to desperately continue.

“Hi little guy,” Sansa said quietly as she took the runt from him, her soft fingers brushing over his rough, calloused ones, and he fought back a rush of blood down south. He was acting like a fucking green boy, and he gritted his teeth at his. Fuck this vetrinarian, fuck her establishment, fuck her perfect tits especially.

“Well, he’s pretty skinny for his age. But he also hasn’t been getting the milk he’s been needing. I assume you don’t know his mother?” Sansa asked, while the little traitorous runt curled into her collarbone, purring at her warmth. He wanted to trade places.

“It just showed up.” Sandor grumbled, not wanting to look into her eyes. He didn’t know shit about cats, and if this bitch was about to scold him for it he’d march the fuck out-

“Oh, okay. They’re tough at this age, but I can show you how to feed him from a bottle, and give him the shots he needs today-”

“A bottle?” Sandor mused, not able to stop the frustrated expression on his face. A fucking bottle? Like he could bottle feed the damned thing, he could easily squeeze the shit out of it or break its skinny neck and fuck-

“I can help you.” Sansa said quickly, reaching out a hand to reassure him. His first instinct was to recoil back, getting as far away from her touch as possible. He saw a little bit of hurt flash behind her eyes, flit across her pretty features, but he decided he’d probably imagined it wistfully.

“If you can bring him by daily, I can feed him for a bit and maybe show you how to.” Sansa said kindly, that blush going back into her cheeks. She seemed a little nervous, and he couldn’t place why. She should be annoyed with him, disgusted at him, ready to be done with this appointment as soon as possible. But instead, the little chirping bird was trying to help him best she could.

“I would love to help you two. Free of charge, of course. I know how hard it can be.” Sansa said quickly. 

Every fucking day. Sandor wanted to say no, to say that he’d just throw the runt outside and let it find its own damn bottle, but he also knew that every day would mean seeing Sansa every day. And even if she made him angry at the responses she conjured from him, he still wouldn’t mind seeing her pretty ass and full lips every day. If only to let himself have some sort of thing to look forward to every day. 

Lord knows he’d be thinking about it before bed tonight, despite how disgusting and pitiful that made him.

“Okay.” Sandor muttered. Sansa smiled softly, still a bit taken aback, like that wasn’t what she had expected. The runt yipped as she handed it back to him, like the little cunt it was.

“So your homework is to find a name for him.” Sansa said teasingly, tucking a long strand of copper behind her ear. She hit him with a shy smile, and he felt his knees turn weak, like some sappy little green boy.

Sandor just grunted in response, hoping that was enough. 

He paid his bill, squeezing the runt a little tight to remind him how much of a pain in the ass he was- Tormund grinned at him while he filled out his paperwork. Sandor really, really disliked the cheery fucker and his creepy grins, he decided. 

And soon he was walking home, the quiet black furball sleeping in his palm, already anxious for 7:00 am tomorrow.


End file.
